The Free Field

The Free Field I saw Quinn again tonight, first time in years, sailing the streets, weaving through people, collar up, head cocked, arms like telephone poles sunk in the pockets of his overcoat, the brilliant pennants of his long red hair waving over the stadium where years ago he took my handoff, bucked off guard, found the free field, and heaved like a bison into the end zone. Tonight, when Quinn wove by me muttering, I should have handed him the ball. I should have screamed, “Go, Quinn, go!” He would have stiff-armed the lamppost, found the free field again, left us all in his wake to gawk as he hit the end zone and circled the goal posts, whooping and laughing, flinging the ball like a spear over the cross-bar, back to Iraq. Donal Mahoney